The air is thick with ashes, the sky is a crude grey with an endless onslaught of metallic clouds, and the earth is a cold, rotten wasteland. They are all that are left of a once colorful civilization.
Well, not all of it. In the midst of it all stands a young man, with ragged blond hair trailing down his shoulders and a torn bandanna around his neck. He is clad in a dusty black T-shirt, with a skull insignia blazed across it, and a pair of dirty and scuffed pants.
Ironically appropriate attire for the current situation.
Before him, a flimsy cross is set erect in the ruined soil, made from two planks of wood hastily nailed together.
Had the time been a few months earlier, the blond-haired boy would have undoubtedly been weeping his eyes out, sobbing uncontrollably as he suffered an onrush of memories through his head, painful ones. But now the sight of that cross has become routine, and his emotional response is dulled.
The boy picks up a bucket of water. Time to get to work.